


and oh, poor atlas

by sistermercury



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Science Bros, i have a feeling there'll be porn eventually maybe, i'm pretty sure JARVIS can't do all the things I think he can, this fic is about self-loathing assholes who do science, this tagging system is a lot of pressure
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-20
Updated: 2013-09-26
Packaged: 2017-11-10 08:06:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/464065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sistermercury/pseuds/sistermercury
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You know, Bruce, you don't talk, you don't text, you don't write and now your green ass is wanted by malicious parties unknown? Great. Just great.</p><p>(When called to a TED Talk in Bangalore, Tony Stark runs into the Avenger that he'll never admit he kind of misses the most.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. lay me down

  
TED Talks. Tony didn’t quite get them. Of course, yes, he  _understood_  the general idea of them- informal lectures about breakthrough ideas in the scientific community and beyond. Fancy power point presentations, really. He knew, because Pepper made him at least look at the website, that TED Talks could be about anything, really, but they all aim to shed some kind of light on the nature of humanity in relationship to science. The science of earth, space, art, the body, invention, emotion, love, etc, etc, etc. It’s some kind of honor to be asked. Bono did one once. “The world’s leading thinkers”, that’s who got invited. They just seemed like flashier versions of university lectures to Tony. But he could talk about almost anything for 90 minutes, so he said yes.

He told them up front he didn’t want to talk about Iron Man. Or the Avengers. And he could tell from the awkward pause on the phone with the very polite booking intern that this wasn’t what they wanted to hear. He told them he wanted to talk about sustainable energy and the science of the arc reactor. That was Tony’s own work, something he found accessible and immediate, something that had little to do with spending one month in a cave or hurtling towards the sky with a nuclear bomb tucked under his arms. It had nothing to do with “the alien thing”, a neat, dissociative nickname Tony’s gave to what was nearly the end of the city, and maybe the world, and almost certainly his own life. That was what he wanted to talk about, something he had engineered himself. Not because of vanity (well, maybe) but because it was safe. It was his work. Not his life. Tony liked to pretend that they hadn’t become irreparably similar.

Tony knew it was a cheat. Like watching Paul McCartney talk about anything but his time with The Beatles. Plus, the talk was set to be held in Bangalore. As in India, at the Indian Institute of Science. He imagined the western press wasn’t going to appreciate being dragged across the world and not get to hear a single thing about, say, working with someone who was supposed to be long since dead or the reappearance of a certain green leviathan in New York. He actually thought it was kind of funny. He’d been dealing with most of the press since the “thing”, mostly because he was good at playing the game, and now the Avengers press archive was filled with half-answers and deflective jokes, giving them just enough of what they wanted, but nothing real. Nothing that could put anyone on their scent. Nothing that could hurt the ones that had scattered. It’d been six months since the battle for New York. They were a team and then, just as suddenly, they weren’t. “Anticlimactic” was the word he’d used at the time. “Disappointing” would have been more accurate.

He didn’t like how often those people, those outright  _nutcases_ , popped into his head. They were everywhere; see a particularly taught black dress in a Saks 5th Avenue window and Tony would flash on bright red hair and bow-shaped lips pursed in annoyance. Hear a motorcycle rumble past Stark Tower, expect to see Old Glory himself with his parted boy scout haircut. See an ad for the upcoming season of Shakespeare in the Park and, well, that sentence finishes itself. But they were gone. Gone back to SHIELD, back to Asgard.

Rogers stuck around because he was a New York boy born and bred but he was using his time to reestablish his uprooted life, get reacquainted with the forward motion of the universe. He assumed that Thor was up in his own galaxy or “realm”, busting up orcs. Whatever they had for orcs up there. Barton and Romanoff returned to their duties, but occasionally managed to keep in touch, mostly as a friendlier front when Fury wanted to get in his business. And then there was Banner. Tony supposed that he should have been glad that Banner stuck around in  _any_  capacity after the battle. He’d been given the whirlwind tour of Stark Tower and, just as Tony had promised, gotten to fool around. Scientifically speaking. But after a few weeks, Tony noticed Bruce’s reticence to even speak, let alone join him in a round of ‘let’s see if we can make this blow up.’ Bruce mentioned something about wanting to go visit a cousin somewhere and Tony, wanting to be polite, offered up the private jet. But he had to settle for giving Bruce a ride to the train station. There was a phone call when Bruce arrived at his supposed destination, and then complete radio silence. Tony had come this close to a screaming match with Fury before Pepper quietly reminded him that 24/7 surveillance was the exact opposite of what Bruce wanted. And he supposed she was right. Maybe he was just out there, experiencing life as a free man. Tony would never admit to himself that what he really wanted was to be part of the experience. He felt strangely left out. That was new. He didn’t like it.

These thoughts barreled through his mind uninvited, and he took a step out into the humid night air, walking through the courtyard garden. Inside, the post-talk reception raged. Apparently his appearance had outsold both Bono and Bill Clinton and the entire event was being treated with the same amount of care and preparation as, say, the Olympics. In the main hall behind him, paper lanterns hung from the ceiling and beautiful girls in saris wandered around serving champagne and hors d’oeuvres. He’d asked the head of the university if this is how all TED talks were treated with this much pomp and circumstance and the man just laughed. “Of course not.” But the frequent application of his cheshire cat grin threatened to tear the muscles of his mouth apart, or at least it certainly felt that way, and he continued to retreat, hiding himself between the rows of manicured ornamental bushes.  

The campus was a green oasis in the middle of a hive of modern living, almost overgrown, the kind of garden allowed to run a little wild. Night-blooming jasmine wove itself among the ivy that overtook the high brick walls surrounding the courtyard, the fragrance hanging heavy in the air, almost tangible like incense smoke. He shed his blazer, shoving up his shirtsleeves and letting the fresh air run over the exposed skin. His phone was on silent, probably short-circuiting with the burden of a million “so how’d it go?” messages.  _I should call Pepper_. That’s how these things went- do something big. Call Pepper. She was stuck in New York, doing the dirty work on the DC branches of Stark Tower. Apparently DC still didn’t like the idea of a Stark skyscraper “marring” their non-existant skyline, where nothing soared higher than the somewhat-overrated (in Tony’s opinion) Washington Monument. Big white obelisk. Big white deal.

He huffed a deep sigh, watching the winding traffic patterns in the distance. Something was off. It felt like he couldn’t fully exhale. It wasn’t the event, of course, Tony never found things like this stressful. Things had been so quiet for six months, and you couldn’t just go from the two most eventful days of your life then expect to be emotionally satisfied when you have to go back to staring at blueprints. Maybe that wasn’t fair, though. People had suffered. People had died. Jesus,  _he_  had almost died a painful fiery airless death in space. He was still waiting for that to register. Maybe it never would, maybe that was his problem. If you could call it a problem.

He was interrupted by a low rustling, the source of which he couldn’t quite pinpoint. His head snapped up glancing around, his brown eyes narrowed, alert.  _Geez, it’s probably some drunk kids making out. You’ve let those leather clad super spies get to you. Vigilant assholes._  But he continued to hear it, rustling, the sound of vegetation moving, slight scuffling. For a moment, he flashed back to the brief tour he’d been given by an extremely enthusiastic biotechnology professor, who lovingly mentioned the twelve different species of snake the campus was known to house. They even had a special team (an elite task force, Tony liked to imagine) to remove the snakes so people didn’t try to kill them if they wandered in to a lecture hall or dormitory.

At this point, having consumed so much champagne, Tony could make absolutely no promises on the not-killing-a-fucking-snake front. But the scuffling and rustling continued, soon partnered by the sound of heavy breathing and before Tony could add the “fuck” on to his “What the-“, a figure dropped down over the garden wall, landing on his knees, his hands splaying out in front of him, trying clumsily to break his fall.

Well. Tony had to hand it to them, the security surrounding the pavilion rivaled a president’s secret service, and he probably should have alerted someone, but damned if he wasn’t a little curious. The stranger was wearing a black sweatshirt, the hood pulled up to obscure his face. He pulled himself into a sitting position, examining a tear in the knee of his jeans, and Tony could see dark blood seeping through the worn-out material. He could hear the man swearing under his breath, the strange familiarity of the faint, low voice making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. The man didn’t get up right away, catching his breath and rubbing the dirt off of his palms. What was he doing? Tony finished the warm champagne and set aside the plastic flute.

“Lemme guess,” he called, throwing caution to the wind. “Bribing the doorman didn’t work?” The man’s head snapped up and it looked like he was about to make a break for it, scrambling to his feet when he halted. Tony shrugged, watching the man’s every move while pacing back and forth.

“I mean, what are you, press? Tabloids?....eBay autograph seller?” The man didn’t say anything, slowly backing himself up against the garden wall. His posture was strange, kind of hunched over and his left arm was wrapped around his stomach. Tony sighed.

“Well come on, get what you want before they throw you into the university snake pit. I’m feeling ultra-generous.” He said flatly, approaching the man slowly. It probably should have occurred to him that someone who had to sneak his way in, dressed like he was in the middle of a Mission Impossible plot, might have been, you know, not exactly a savory character, but after you stare an entire alien army in the face, clumsy guys in hoodies don’t exactly screw up your calm.

“Here I’ll make it easy for you: Am I engaged? No. Are the Avengers recruiting? Absolutely not. Is Stark Industries working on-“ Tony could have rambled on for hours if the man hadn’t held out a hand, as if to say “please shut up” and surprisingly, Tony did.

“Christ, you’re so loud.” The cadence of his voice was unmistakable, that low, gentle half-mumble, as if he were too nervous to open his mouth all the way. Tony peered a little closer and now he could see dark brown curls peeking out from the hood, those nervous hands worrying the pockets of his jeans.

Tony’s jaw fell open more than slightly and he found himself walking forward faster than his lubricated brain was willing to process. “Banner?” he asked, feeling just  _so stupid_  that he didn’t recognize him right away.

Bruce yanked the hood off of his head and finally made eye contact, the corners of his mouth twitching in a hesitant, nervous smile. Tony’s feet halted suddenly, about a foot away from him. The first time he’d ever met Bruce Banner, he looked like your run-of-the-mill college professor- as clean cut as the man could manage, clothes ill-fitting but professional, trying to look as “together” as humanly possible. The version of Bruce Banner he was currently staring at had at least a week’s worth of stubble on his face, streaks of dirt swiped across his cheeks and forehead and painfully dark circles under his eyes. Tony, for once, had no idea what to do. What was the saying?  _Of all the gin joints in the world…_

“What the fuck are you doing here?” the words fell clumsily out of Tony’s mouth as he stepped closer, trying to examine Bruce without touching him or alarming him. His knees were still bleeding and Tony could see raw patches on his palms, and he just looked  _bad_  but hell if Tony could put his finger on why. Bruce shrugged his shoulders, swallowing hard before speaking.

“Couldn’t afford a ticket.” He said, laughing weakly. Tony rolled his eyes and Bruce winced.

“Flattering. I mean in Bangalore, thought your... _deal_  was on the other side of the country.” He couldn’t help but sound a little bitter, and when Bruce looked up at him, sheepish, almost embarrassed looking, Tony’s jaw clenched because  _those goddamn awful big brown doe eyes of his I could punch him it would feel GREAT._ Bruce sighed, pressing the heel of his palm to his forehead, avoiding Tony’s pointed stare.

“It’s…complicated.” Bruce’s voice was tight and fragile and if Tony hadn’t been too busy trying to verbally flagellate him, he might have recognized it as a symptom of pain.

Tony choked out a laugh and shook his head. “So what, you fall off everyone’s radar for half a year and then just drop out of the sky? Literally? Ever hear of a text message, Banner?” He held up his hands, obnoxiously mimicking texting with his thumbs. “Dear Tony. In India. Not Dead. Xoxo, Bruce.” He threw his hands up in the air, waiting for Bruce to say something.

“Would you just….shut up for a second-“ Bruce muttered, running his hands through his hair and clenching his eyes shut. “And let me explain.” He opened his eyes and focused on something past Tony, who was almost sputtering with indignity.

“Explain away, I got all night.” Tony spat back, wishing he had more champagne. But Bruce’s eyes were wide and his hands were shaking and Tony couldn’t even get another word in before Bruce pulled the hood back up and pushed past him, hurrying further into the garden. “What-Hey"! Tony called after him before looking over to see two men, in nondescript dark outfits, scanning the area. He could see the outline of a utility belt on one of them, with some sort of radio and a holstered gun. Tony’s eyes narrowed and all of the sudden it hit like a punch to the gut- this had absolutely nothing to do with him. Tony turned and followed after Bruce, searching for him in the dim glow of the lantern light.

He found Bruce crouched underneath the bridge leading from the garden to the campus quad area, one hand clutching the railing next to him, the other pressed against his side. His eyes were shut and his head hung towards his chest, breathing hard. Tony approached cautiously, not sure of how he should be handling this situation, of how he should be handling  _Bruce_ , but he was now involved whether the scientist wanted it or not. After parties could wait.

“Hey-“ he said quietly and Bruce’s head snapped, like a deer after it hears the sound of a cocked rifle. The look on his face almost halted Tony's steps altogether. He was terrified. Tony held his hands up in surrender and continued his slow approach. “Easy there, big guy.” Bruce exhaled sharply and let Tony kneel down next to him.

“I’m sorry.” Bruce said faintly, and Tony’s lips thinned into an incredulous line. “Don’t be.” He said, brushing it off. Bruce always had a "sorry" prepared, whether it was deserved or not. Tony wondered if Bruce _knew_ he often acted like a kicked puppy, he was the team's champion apologist.

“Who are those guys?” Tony said, holding Bruce’s eye contact and not letting it drop. Bruce shook his head. “Didn't exactly stop to ask.” Well, it was good that he still found the strength to be sarcastic, Tony noted. He clamped his hand to his mouth, trying to think. He didn’t exactly feel  _prepared_  for this situation.

“How long they been following you?” The worry line in Bruce’s forehead creased heavily as he thought, and Tony realized with mute horror that he was calculating the time in his head because he’d lost track of it altogether. “Four days. Maybe five.” Tony’s eyes narrowed and he couldn’t help but think of the choice words he was going to have with Nick Fury, mostly to the tune of “I told you so.”

Before Tony could begin to strategize, Bruce’s knuckles went white across the rail and he pitched forward, his bloodied knees threatening to give out entirely and Tony was on him in a second, slipping one arm underneath him and wrapping it around his waist, holding him up. Tony was absolutely silent, mostly to keep from spewing a million expletives and catching the wrong kind of attention. He guided Bruce to a set of concrete steps and eased him down.

“You don't look so hot, Doc.” He said gently, kneeling down next to him. In the harsher light of a street lamp _,_ he could see how pale Bruce was underneath his dark clothes. Tony swallowed the lump in his throat and snapped his fingers in front of Bruce’s unfocused eyes. Bruce shuddered slightly and looked up at Tony. It looked like he was putting all his effort into staying awake.

“Banner, give me  _something_. Don't fall apart on me.” He said insistently, trying to keep Bruce’s attention. "I need to get out of here…" Bruce’s dazed voice trailed off and Tony felt as if his heart was lodged in his throat.

He looked down, noticed the odd placement of Bruce's hand and delicately pulled it away from his stomach. “Don’t touch me, I'm fine.” Tony just gave him one silencing raised eyebrow.

He couldn’t see anything through the thick black jersey and he touched the area lightly with his fingers before pressing down. Bruce lurched forward, a weak, wrenching cry escaping his lips as he tried to move Tony’s hands away. Tony flinched, waited for the emerald shock to hit Bruce's eyes, but it never did and so he inched forward, awkwardly trying to comfort him.

“Hey. Hey hey hey hey…” Tony hushed him softly and grabbed his hands, Bruce's dirty calloused hands, _big for such a small guy_ , and forced them to his sides, gently pushing back his shoulders so he was reclining against the steps. Not comfortable, but Tony was assessing him in the only way he knew how, splayed out like a piece of machinery on the workbench.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Just...stay with me, okay?” He managed to smile reassuringly at Bruce, squeezing his shoulder gently. Bruce just stared back, listening to Tony but also somewhere distant, trying to keep the big guy on his mental leash. It was the first time Tony had even given thought to Bruce’s verdant alter-ego. In better circumstances, this would have been the least of Tony’s worries, but this was neither the time nor the place for Bruce to lose it.

Tony bit hard on the corner of his lip before unzipping Bruce’s sweatshirt. "Gonna get a look under the hood, okay?" He said with a slight smile, completely ignoring the fact that he was so panicked. "Did you just compare me to a car…" Tony looked up to see the faintest smirk on Bruce's face. "Had to made sure you were paying attention." He deadpanned, pulling the sweatshirt aside Underneath, he found a blue button down shirt, about a size too big-  _always too big, the man couldn’t dress properly if it killed him_ \- with a hole in the side, stiff with old dried blood. He gingerly unbuttoned the shirt, pulling it aside, and cursed aloud, despite himself. The wound in Bruce’s torso was about the length of his palm, poorly held together with butterfly strips. “Jesus.” Tony gasped.

It was horrible and dark and exposed, and when he held a hand to it, there was a weird sort of heat coming off of it. Little red lines were starting to form around the edges, running under his skin, like horrible little veins and the familiarity of the image made Tony want to throw up. Not palladium poisoning obviously, but just as alarming _This is so bad, how did he let it get this bad._  He pulled the shirt back down, leaning back and dragging a hand over his face. This didn’t make sense, Banner didn’t take damage, he didn’t  _get hurt_ , the big guy was supposed to take over, because whether he liked it or not, what Banner had was the world’s strongest self-preservation failsafe and  _why wasn’t it fucking working?_

“Bad, right?” Bruce’s voice sounded so little distant and Tony looked over at him, suddenly very angry.

“What the hell happened?” he hissed at Bruce, his fear venting out in frustration. “I mean, what the hell kind of doctor are you, Banner? Jesus-“ He put a hand to his temple and tried to think-how to get him out of here, where to take him, how to keep him safe, and god help him, Bruce was just  _laughing_. It was usually a sound that Tony liked, that he had welcomed from the moment he met Bruce, but now it just sounded so bitter and resigned and just the saddest damn thing Tony'd ever heard and he wanted it to stop.

Tony glared at him, feeling ten different kinds of helpless. “I’m fucking serious, what happened?” The sick smile disappeared from Bruce’s face and he took a few shallow breaths.

“They cornered me. Tried to sedate me.” He said, pawing feebly at his neck and Tony could see a faint red scratch where Bruce must have pulled away from a needle. “Made a break for it…one of ‘em nicked me while I was out in the open, think they wanted me to give them a reason to take me down…” Like pulling the pin on a grenade, Tony supposed.  "Bled all over 'em. Radiation exposure. Their loss." Bruce’s head lulled to the side and his eyes rolled back a bit.

“Hey-“ Tony blurted out, his voice strained and anxious, reaching out and turning Bruce’s head back towards him, trying to keep him awake, exhaling in relief when his eyes fluttered back open. “Why didn’t you-” It was a natural question. They’d been willing to hurt him this bad, why hadn’t he tried to defend himself?

“Couldn’t. Airport. Too many people.” Tony’s jaw clenched. He supposed he could live with that answer. Hell, maybe he should have been happy for him. That wasn't a level of control he'd had six months ago. But now, he just shook his head. _Be selfish for once, you sad bastard._ “He would’ve been too riled up…could’ve been bad.” Bruce’s voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, and it seemed he was drifting off again. Tony leaned in and carefully pressed the back of his hand to Bruce’s forehead, a motherly gesture that felt weird, almost silly. A soft string of expletives escaped him. He was burning up. “Well, lucky for you, it doesn't matter.” Tony said, forcing his voice to sound casual and upbeat, more for himself than anything else. “Cause it’s gonna be fine.”

“C’mon sunshine.” He grabbed Bruce’s arm and gently pulled him into a sitting position, getting under one of his shoulders so they could get walking. Before he could stand him up, Bruce slumped against Tony's chest, his head resting against the base of his neck. Tony tensed briefly before wrapping his arm tighter around the man's shoulders, holding Bruce against him. Bruce shuddered and twitched slightly, trying to shake the constriction of Tony's arms, trying to shake the feeling of being trapped. But Tony held tight.

He wasn't an idiot, he saw a debt to be repaid when he saw one. Six months ago, Tony Stark had fallen from the sky only to be caught, only to be saved. Maybe now was when he returned the favor. He certainly couldn't leave Bruce as he was. His skin was unbearably hot and Tony reached his free hand to Bruce's neck, feeling the rapid thrum of his pulse beneath his fingers. That was an explosion waiting to happen. Unless he did something.

 _How do I even do this_. Tony never considered himself a particularly gentle person. Gentle didn't befit "Iron Man", scourge of terrorists, aliens and Norse Tricksters everywhere. Of course, it didn't suit enormous green rage monsters either. Tony never understood how Bruce managed that side of his demeanor- painfully gentle. Someone so thoroughly screwed over shouldn't have to be like that. It was tragic.

"Bruce..." he murmured softly in his ear, staying with the "keep calm" philosophy. Bruce mumbled something Tony didn't understand, and nuzzled his cheek against the cold skin of Tony's exposed collarbone. He couldn't help but shudder slightly. Tony usually loved being right. This wasn't one of those times.

"C'mon buddy, we gotta get moving." Tony took a deep breath and then pulled the both of them up. For a second, Bruce was almost deadweight on his feet and Tony was terrified he wouldn't be able to pull this off, but he seemed to regain a bit of sense, able to shuffle along with Tony underneath him. They hobbled along the garden path together.

"I ruined your party."

"Are you kidding me? This place was beat hours ago."

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

It turned out that leaving was the easy part. A.) He was Tony Stark and did what he wanted. B.) He was able to pass off Bruce as some drunken friend who needed to spend a night on his couch in order to avoid a few of his own in the metaphorical doghouse. A few words to security about the men in black wandering around and they had a good head start. Tony's driver in the accursed limousine the company had sent was an elder Indian man with a poker face that Natasha would have found breathtaking. Tony gave him a, well, call it a "healthy" tip in advance and told him to drive as fast as he could take that oversized slab of metal and upholstery. He hated limousines. Too slow. Too cliche. He unceremoniously shoved Bruce into the back seat and gave the outside crowd a curt wave and smile.

"Home" was a villa tucked away on the outskirts of the city, secluded and quiet. Howard Stark purchased it in the late 60's for as a love nest for mistress, the daughter of an Indian tech magnate Howard had buddied with in order to expand Stark Industries into Stark Enterprises. For it's time, it was a modern marvel, all glass and steel and straight lines and primary colors- high contrast to the stone, wood, silk and mirrors of it's surrounding architecture. _Cold. Just the way he liked it._ The lovely woman had no kids, so when she died, the house passed back to the Stark estate. A few years ago, Tony came in and gutted the place, and rewired it to suit his needs. He'd grown pretty accustomed to having his living spaces talk back to him. And he put in a pool. Because pools are important.

Trying to get Bruce to go to a hospital was a sad joke. He resisted, at first verbally, muttering something about how he'd just poison anyone who tried to help and then physically, grabbing for the handle on the car door, forcing Tony to yank him down into his lap, holding him down at first and then, really, just holding him. The rest of the ride was spent in silence, and Tony closed his eyes against the bright lights that seemed to penetrate the tinted windows, trying to ignore the mounting fear that he wouldn't be able to do anything to help Bruce, who shivered underneath his arms despite the fact that Tony could feel his body heat through his clothes. No hospital then. Poor bastard might as well get what he wanted, for once.

The door to the house all but flew off the hinges as Tony nearly kicked it down, pretty much dragging Bruce in a half-assed sort of bridal carry. Before JARVIS could finish the "Welcome back, Mr. Stark" and read his list of over 70 messages, Tony cut him off.

"JARVIS, anything comes within 50 yards of this house, I wanna know about it, I don't care if it's cats in heat or goddamn Genghis Khan." Not his best. He was distracted.

He shoved a splayed-open suitcase off of his bed with one hand, wincing as he heard a bottle of good scotch, congratulatory present to himself, breaking, probably ruining the remaining clothes inside. Bruce fell out of his arms, against the mattress, and Tony tried to ignore his faint whimper or the way he seemed to immediately assume the fetal position. Leaning down, he pulled the hood back off of Bruce's face, looking for signs of life.

"Banner, you still with me?" He said loudly, too loudly, almost startling himself in the too-quiet house. Bruce didn't respond. He barely moved, and Tony was already more than certain that he was the worst person that Bruce could have run into in this state. Tony Stark could do a lot go things, some of them considered miraculous and impossible and flashy and genius, but he really doubted that taking care of people, in any way that didn't involve signing a check, was one of them. He reached out and brushed some of the damp, grey-streaked hair away from Bruce's forehead, his expression still lined in pain, half-awake, his eyes darting under the bruised skin of his eyelids. _Be okay,_ he willed quietly, hesitating before resting his hand against Bruce's face, brushing his thumb against the curve of his cheekbone.

_Be okay be okay be okay be okay._

He seemed to respond to the touch, lips parting slightly, eyes opening, bloodshot and half-lidded, for a fraction of a second before closing. Tony sat up with a deep sigh, and began removing Bruce's clothes, tossing the dirty, threadbare shirts aside and swallowing the bile at the back of his throat when he saw that horrible, angry cut in Bruce's side staring him in the face. After a rummage through his thoroughly understocked medicine cabinet, he found himself armed with little more than some hydrogen peroxide and acetaminophen. Fucked, basically. He could get Bruce to swallow the pills and try to flush the wound out with peroxide but it basically felt like trying to throw a teacup of water on a house fire.

He watched with a numb fascination as the peroxide reacted to the dirt in the wound and fizzled quietly, hopefully doing good. He had one hand resting against Bruce's chest, in case he tried to move around, but Bruce didn't do anything. Barely moving, barely breathing and his skin was bruised and gray and hot and for a moment Tony looked at him and was terrified that Bruce had it all wrong, that maybe he really could die. Would die. That maybe putting a gun in his mouth was just too… ostentatious.

"Sir, you have a call on line one."

Tony's looked up, his hand unconsciously and protectively rising to Bruce's shoulder.

"JARVIS, this is not a good time, this is the direct opposite of a good-"

"Sir, they say it concerns Doctor Banner."


	2. pockets full of stones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens. Tony hates when it does that.

  
He took a breath. Cleared his throat. Shook out his hands. Can't let them know you're afraid, can't even let them think that for a second. It wasn't uncommon for every piece of Stark property to come with a buffet of unfathomably advanced technology, and this place was no exception. His idea of a "travel kit" consisted of about 14 or so pieces of high-tech Stark tech to suit his purposes, whether that be a kickass sound system or, currently, trying to track the location of a bunch of shadowy scumbags. He stood in front of an active call monitor, one usually used to identify callers and video chat if the capabilities allowed, but for now, just a blank, black screen with a red slash through it, and the ominous words 'ID UNKNOWN' flashing repeatedly. "Jarvis, I needed those coordinates _yesterday_ , we gotta get the lead out of our ass-" he mumbled while activating every piece of hacking software he owned.

"I am currently running every available tracking system we have, sir."

Tony nodded, blinked, so distracted, wondering if JARVIS could sense his appreciative nod. Meanwhile, the call still waited, active, mocking, knowing he would pick up, that it mattered too much _not_ to pick up. He couldn't imagine who might be on the other line. No matter how many times he'd dealt with bad people, terrorists, psychopaths, aliens, and other general assorted scum, he was always shocked at the level of organization. And for all his genius and tech and suits and teammates and girlfriend CEOs, he dreaded the day- the inevitable day- when someone could do better. Not now. Not today. Not when someone was counting on him.

(Because unlike what Nick Fury would lead others to believe: being a textbook narcissist and being an asshole are not always mutual.)

"Well, Jay...showtime at the Apollo." he mumbled before hitting a button on the keyboard. There was the faint crackle of static as the door to whomever was on the other side swung open, and a pause, almost unbearable, while both parties waited to see who would speak up first. Tony, not wanting to seem hesitant, because hesitation is fear and hesitation is those assholes thinking they've pinned you to the corner, cleared his throat expectantly.

"What do you _want_?"

The silence on the other end was breached by a short, curt chuckle and Tony's spine stiffened.

_"And here I thought you were considered something of a wordsmith, Mr. Stark."_

It was a deep, clipped, polished English accent, and if any of his espionage-inclined colleagues were around, they would have been able to tell him that it belonged to someone from the west end of London, male, in their late 50's. Not the voice he expected, to say the least.

"Never did like talking over the phone. And, well, even if I did feel like a chat, I'm a little _distracted_."

Another chuckle, this one sliding over the man's vocal chords with a slimey sort of satisfaction. Tony glared and then realized that there was no one to glare at. Should have poured a drink before this.

_"Ah, yes. Doctor Banner."_

Tony paced about the room, unable to bring himself to sit. "I don't suppose if I ask real nice, you'll call off...whatever you plan on doing." Stupid question to ask. Either they were going to ask for extravagent amounts of money or they were just going to lie and come after them anyway. Maybe both. The man tsked and Tony's jaw set itself permanently on edge.

_"You could try. But I can't imagine you have much time to waste."_

As if on cue, he heard a noise from the bedroom, something between a sob and a moan and he fought the instinct to leave. He bit hard on his lip and gave JARVIS a typed command to monitor Bruce's heartrate and temperature.

_"Mr. Stark, I think you and I both know that when dealing with sick animals, the civilized thing to do, the kind thing to do...is put them down."_

A bitter laugh escaped Tony's lips, even though it felt like he was going to throw up and he tossed his hands into the air, even though the man couldn't see them. He forced himself into a chair and watched the smaller monitor to his left as JARVIS carried out his instruction. Heart Rate: 140. Body Temperature: 103.5. He dragged a hand over his face and peered up at the faceless screen above him.

"Is that what you wanted?" he said, wincing at the furious, strangled quality of his voice. Not good. Calm, in control. Like you were with that long-horned Asgardian pissant.

 _"Goodness, no. He is a curiosity I wish to observe, harming him was never my intention, but of course, I can't control all the actions of those in my employ."_ Tony rubbed the bridge of his nose and quietly sighed. He was through with this prick already.

 _"_ _But surely you understand, Mr. Stark, that interest, as a scientist? Maybe you don't. You are a "hero" first and foremost, afterall, you've never thought of that."_ the man scolded as if he were a schoolmaster chastising a disobedient pupil. Tony bit on the inside of his cheek and took too long to fire back.

"No." This only made the man laugh again. A bad lie, and they both knew it. It was partially the truth; Tony would never want to do harm to Bruce, or the Hulk, but he was damned if he didn't want to know more about the science, whatever it was that made any of that possible. Some people saw a monster, Tony saw a possible turn in the evolutionary process- waiting to be understood. The Hulk existed in the world, he was an anomaly, an unexpected result, and curiousity being the awful fucking little thing it is...yeah. It had sprung to Tony's mind once or twice. But hurting the subject wasn't at all worth it.

 _"Mr. Stark, you do us all a disservice pretending to be a moral man, Dr. Banner included. Still, it's touching, to see so much care given to such a destructive-"_ Tony shot up in his chair, almost knocking it over. He'd had just about enough.

"Alright, Captain Picard, I'm gonna need you to call back whoever you have coming to my house. _Now_. If one of your guys even lays eyes on this place, I'm going to know about it. No one is getting in this house. No one is laying a finger-"

_"Yes, Mr. Stark, lock yourself inside your glass palace with a wounded, frightened beast. I wish you all the best. I'll be sure that your remains, what we can find of them at least, will be treated with the utmost respect."_

His last words were cut off by fake, unamused laughter, which was the only response Tony could really muster. There was a pointed silence on the other end as Tony continued to choke out laughter, hoping he would just hang up. When there was no response, the man sighed deeply. Tony crossed his arms and put his feet up on the desk, giving a nervous glance at the lower monitor. Heart Rate: 156. Body Temperature: 103.8.

"Did you call to negotiate or just gloat because neither are going to get you very far." he said flatly.

_"Mr. Stark, there is nothing to negotiate. Your money, although tempting, means nothing to me. And I think you and I both know that all I have to do is wait-"_

"He's gonna be fine." Tony said forcefully. The man gave one curt, derisive laugh, and a chill tore down Tony's spine.

_"Like I said, all I have to do is **wait**. If you try to leave, we will find you. And since I can assume the good doctor is only getting worse, his feeble control will soon be slipping. Mr. Stark, You seem like a smart man. You may be...fond...of Dr. Banner, but if you're smart, you will run for cover and hope he passes you by." _

Tony snorted derisively, even as he tried to ignore the distinct, horrible sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. "Cute. What, are you from the Evil League of Masterpiece Theater Actors, or something?"

The man laughed despite himself.

_"Goodbye, Mr. Stark."_

There was a click and then the line went dead and the air seem to hang heavy with the flat silence. He plopped back down into the chair and leaned forward, resting his forehead in the palms of his hands. "God, bad guys are fuckin' silly. Jarvis, do we have _anything_ on what just happened?" If they didn't, then they were sitting ducks, trapped on this secluded little hill until something exploded. At this point, he was kicking himself, he should have just taken Bruce to the hospital, even without the added safety of his monitors and security system, someone qualified could have been helping him, fixing him. But if anything happened there, he knew Bruce would never forgive himself. The last thing Tony wanted was to add to the Hulk's rap sheet. A naive, stubborn part of him refused to see the Hulk that way. He hadn't when he first met Bruce and it might have saved his life.

"The call was made from indentifiable coordinates in London, England, sir."

A set of numbers flashed on the screen and Tony scribbled them down for later use.

"Beautiful. See if you can get into previous calls made from that number. You get a number, you see if it's anywhere near this house." He stood up, knees a bit shaky, and crept off towards the bedroom as JARVIS's "Yes, sir" faded into the background. He paused in the threshold, took a breath and entered, trying to ignore the sick pit in the bottom of his stomach. Bruce lay curled up on the bed, no longer the motionless shell he had left. Instead, he was wracked with chills, taking rapid, shallow breaths and trying in vain to control his shaking, tired body. Even his skin, normally sunkissed, tawny from his time spent in warm places, had taken on a horrible waxiness. "Pale as death" came to mind. Tony fought the burning feeling at the back of his eyes and sat on the side of the bed, grabbing one of Bruce's shoulders and forcing him to lay flat so he wouldn't agitate his injured side. He didn't want to admit how much this scared him. He didn't _do_ illness. The human body was a pile of gross and frustrating hurdles. There was nothing complex about this, it couldn't be tinkered with, there was no troubleshooting. Still holding Bruce's shoulders, Tony resisted the urge to shake him, force the big guy to the surface. _Help him_ , he thought. _Help me._  

His skin burned beneath Tony's hands, worse than it was before, and he cast an unappreciative glance at the bottle of ibuprofen sitting on the bedside table, as it hadn't done a damn bit of good. Nothing he was doing was helping at all. This was ridiculous, this was _fucked_ , he had escaped the clutches of a terrorist organization and built the first Iron Man suit using little more than scrap metal and wishful thinking, and yet here he sat, unable to stop the people who were coming after them or keep his friend from getting sicker. He looked down at the wound, which he had futilely tried to dress and saw traces of dark, discolored blood and clear pus seeping through the thin layers of white guaze. Gingerly pulling the dressing aside, he noticed a faint red line running from the wound underneath the skin, streaking up towards Bruce's chest.

"Tony?"

His eyes shot up to Bruce's face and was surprised to find Bruce looking at him. Well, almost, because as soon as he had Tony's attention his eyes flickered shut again. Tony's breath caught in his throat and he stuttered awkwardly, placing his hand on Bruce's cheek, trying to get him to come around again. "Hey." he muttered, and Bruce just leaned into his palm. "Hey, no, c'mon, look at me, big guy." His eyes, glassy and dull, opened back up with a slowness that pained Tony to his core. He managed to smile down at the sick man and brushed the hair away from his face, thinking about gestures his mother made during bouts of childhood maladies, shots in the dark about what he might respond to. Calming, simple things. _Not rocket science but as long as it keeps him on the right side of the mental divider_. He smiled faded almost instantly as he took in Bruce's condition and he took a deep breath.

"Alright, listen to me, I know it hurts." he said quietly, pressing his fingers gently against Bruce's neck, feeling his pulse spasm unevenly. "I know this hurts like hell, but I just..." He swallowed hard. This shouldn't have been difficult. With words, he could impress, exhaust, threaten, seduce, but he couldn't comfort? "Just fight this, okay?" Bruce shook his head slightly, struggling to keep his eyes open.

"Can't." His voice was a broken creak at the back of his throat and Tony grabbed the bottle of water off the table. He slid his arm underneath Bruce's neck and lifted his head up, pressing the rim to his lips, tilting the water into his mouth. "Yes, you can." he said as Bruce drank greedily. He tossed the bottle aside when it was empty and continued to mutter quiet affirmations as Bruce responded with delirious refusals.

His eyes fluttered shut again and Tony realized his hand was still cradling Bruce's head. He set him back against the pillow and paused before raking his fingers through the hair near his temples, wrapping one finger around the loose curls before disentangling. It was funny how much he found himself wanting to poke and touch and needle. Bruce seemed like the most tempting non-touchable museum exhibit. He held his breath, waited for that sharp, pricking feeling in his eyes (what the _hell_ was that about?) to go away again and stood up.

_Anthony Stark you are going to put on your fucking thinking cap and fix this._

That's what he did, right? He invented elements in his basement and went to MIT at 15 and returned from the dead and reinvented himself and genius billionaire playboy philanthropist and all those other things and right now, all he felt like was a very scared man trapped with a few very big problems. He could focus on the incoming threat but could risk losing his grip on Bruce (or losing him altogether) and if he tried to get him to someone who could help, he risked exposing the both of them to whatever was sitting out there in the dark, waiting.

So much for the civilian life.

 _Speaking of_. He strode into his living room and peered out through the wide floor-length windows. He knew he was probably exposing himself to sniper-rifles or throwing stars, whatever these guys were packing, but it was more to make himself known. A statement. Come into this house and threaten my friends, you have to go through me first. He'd modified the Mark V after it's run-in with Vanko at Monaco, just as portable, much less destructable and it still fit neatly in an overhead storage compartment. He'd briefly considered not taking it, to which Pepper suggested he take a security team. The idea of spending the weekend in India during monsoon season with a bunch of guys with no necks- no. No, he had much more fun retooling the suit. 

He had the idea to just put it on and shoot at whatever moved but that seemed ill-advised. Whoever these guys were, they were organized enough to follow Bruce wherever he went, which he assumed, mentally calculating the distance between Kolkata and Bangalore, meant enough recon to cover an entire country. So not just yahoos with machine guns. He grabbed a small device off of his desk, about the size of a cellphone and brought it back to the bedroom. Bruce appeared to be sleeping, which seemed to mercifully slow his breathing, and Tony knelt on the floor beside him and raised the device to Bruce side. A tiny needle pressed into the skin near the wound and took a blood sample. He took it away, thankful that it hadn't woken him and calibrated it to measure biological levels of blood toxicity. He waited for a moment, recalling briefly, when he used this thing hourly, measuring the palladium in his own blood...how he didn't tell anyone.

_You don't have to do this by yourself._

The little machine's quiet chirp brought him back to the real world and he held it up in front of him to read. It wasn't pretty. Bruce's blood was host to all sort of harmful pathogens and toxins and if the wound wasn't already septic, it was well on its way. He'd need some serious professional-grade antibiotics to even begin to put this right. He wanted to scream. Bruce was scary genius and had adequate medical training, he wasn't the kind of idiot to just let an unsutured laceration idly rot, so it meant that not only was he prevented from getting himself medical help, he hadn't even been able to stop and try and fix it himself. _What if that was his plan?_ He didn't like to think about it, but he couldn't not do it. Bruce wasn't about to be captured and "studied" so he just kept running. Better dead than captive, better dead than weaponized, better dead than trapped. _He could have just called._ Tony scoffed, that seemed ridiculous. _Who you gonna call? The Avengers!_ It's not something he could see himself doing, so the idea that Bruce might try it seemed even more unlikely. _Then what's the point? What's the point of having an "initiative" and bringing us together and the point of people dying and suffering if we can't even-_

Maybe it was time to break protocol.

"Sir, there appear to be men fifty feet outside the house."

Tony froze. "How many?"

"Twenty five on the ground, several more in surrounding vehicles."

"What are they doing?" He looked out in the darkness and saw nothing save what the outside lights illuminated.Turning to his work station, he checked the security cameras and saw the faint silhouettes of black-clad figures, clearly black ops of some sort.

"They appear to be creating a perimeter, sir."

Well, at least they weren't trying to blow up the house yet. That was nice.

"What are my chances if I just toss the suit on and go out there, teach 'em a lesson?" What was the point of even being a superhero if you couldn't go out and blast some secret agent toadies straight to hell? It would save a lot of time, really.

"My weapons scan is, as of yet, inconclusive." A few blurry images popped up on the screen in front of him, giving him a vague idea of what these guys were carrying. One of them produced an exasperated eyebrow raise, followed by a few choice expletives (the first of them being "motherfucker.") The Hammer Industries logo certainly didn't give him a vote of confidence. It was an EMP Blaster, something Justin Hammer had missed putting on the market only a week or so behind Stark Industries back in the pre-Iron Man days. It produced the effects of a nuclear electromagentic pulse without the actual harmful effects of radiation and could, with the right calibrations, render his suit useless, as well as knock out the power in the entire city. He could take out these guys with ease, but if one of those assholes managed just one EMP, they'd be screwed. The thing was hell on robotics, it was designed to take out unmanned drone planes and the like. Back to sitting duck position. This was messed up, he needed stealth. And if there was one thing Tony Stark was absolutely not good at, it was stealth.

_This is the part where the lightbulb turns on and you do something amazing._

But he had nothing. This house, although it had a bunch of monitors and a JARVIS, was pretty useless when it came to fighting evil, unless he wanted to entertain them to death. All he had was a suitcase and one of his more subpar suits that would be a clunky metal hindrance if it was rendered useless. And he now had no way out of the house, and a man either a few short steps away from either dying of septicemia or destroying the entire house and rampaging through a major metropolitan area. He was exhausted, and surprised to see that it was only 1:30 in the morning.

_Who you gonna call?_

He probably should have done it right away. Hell, it was only 4 p.m. in New York, he wasn't even calling during dinner time. He poured himself a scotch and performed all the necessary password-inputting and number-dialing and extension-dialing and identification-providing. "Shouldn't we have our own private line or something?" he muttered as he waited for the Avenger-in-question to appear. The SHIELD logo briefly flickered on the screen in front of him before it was replaced with just the face he wanted to see. Tony cracked a grin as Natasha swiveled into view, her jade green eyes narrowed in curiosity and confusion.

"Please tell me this isn't a drunk dial."


	3. the world's a beast of a burden

 

Tony found his grin frozen to his face as something panged within him that he may have gotten ahead of himself. It wasn't the laundry list of problems he was going to throw at her that stopped him, but, like a needle scratching off a record, he suddenly came to the stunning realization that _he was about to ask for help_. That went against protocol, to be certain. He could almost hear her squirming in annoyed anticipation. "Stark?" His eyes flicked back to her screen where she was leaning in, tips of her nails drumming against the metal desk. "Aren't you supposed to be-" Tony waved a hand in anticipation of her questions. 

"Yes, yes I know, celebrating me myself and I, it's my favorite pasttime, it wouldn't merit late night pillow talk, trust me. Listen-" he scrubbed a hand over his face, wincing as his hand mushed against a five-o-clock shadow and flop sweat. " We don't really have an Avengers bat signal or a magic shell to blow into-...actually I mean how are we supposed to sound the call, according to Herr Direktor?" Natasha's eyes threatened to roll, like a dam holding back a flood. Tony suddenly wished he'd submitted this in writing: _Natasha, make the bad men go away._ He knew he didn't have time to dither, for all he knew, a grenade was about to fly through the veranda windows. ( _Or worse_ , he kept telling himself, glancing at the little monitor reserved for Bruce's vitals.) Getting blown up was old news. He didn't want to admit how tired he was, having sprinted into it with all the preparedness of a sixth-grader trying to make a diorama ten minutes before the bell rang. He needed her like he needed a slightly scary redheaded fairy godmother. His carriage was about to turn into a pumpkin. 

"Is this a crisis requiring full assembly?" she asked, eyebrow arched. "Is this a crisis _at all_?" her voice flattened again, scrutinizing Tony through the screen. He wasn't a pretty sight, all mussy hair and eye bags. Tony frowned, lips pursed as if he were insulted. "What, you got a hot date tonight?" And there it was. The eye roll. Magnicifent, as if practiced. "It's a uh...I think crisis is a very strong term, its a...minor...tempest. With signs of escalation." Well, he had her attention at least. "Listen, I'm just going to send you my grocery list-" he said, instructing JARVIS to send documents (encrypted) to SHIELD based on the intel he'd compiled of things he needed. Which was pretty much everything. "You'll love it, I've got some prime goons for you to tenderize and terrify." Her expression softened a bit as it came her way and Tony could see the slightly glint of excitement in her nigh-unreadable eyes. 

"I do love goons."

"They're basically gift-wrapped. Slow day at the office?"

"Slow month." she replied, looking through the security feeds outside his house, brow furrowing as the scope of the situation began to register further. "You seem surprised." he said as if it were a question. He'd be stupid to try and term her expressions. "I'm used to your suits and sunglasses digging through my trash,-" She shook her head, looking up at him, lips pursed. "I think Fury hopes that if he keeps his hands out of your things, you'll keep yours out of his." she said cooly. Tony huffed, threw back some scotch. "Fair enough." She looked like she was about to say something smart, but her eyes flicked over the document and she sat back, face shadowed in concern.

"Stark, what's this for?" He shrugged. She could be talking about anything.

"Ampiciilin, ticarcillin, cezafolin-" Tony's stomach tightened. "Are you hurt? Do you have someone hurt over there?"

Tony shook his head, practically burrowing his face in his palm. "No, I'm fine- it's this um, there's this whole thing-"  She looked torn between concern and annoyed with waiting for him to get to the fucking point. He assumed she knew exactly what those things were for (JARVIS had been kind enough to dig out the recommended antibiotics for septic wounds, along with a cocktail of painkillers and other miracle cures he planned on throwing at Banner) but not why he needed them. "It's Banner." he ended up blurting out, for lack of any other smooth explanation.

Well, now he _definitely_ had her attention.

The next ten or so minutes were a blur of explanations; finding Banner at the after-party, the phonecall, the men in a holding position outside his useless, resourceless vacation home. Most of it was peppered with what he assumed were Russian swear words, and infrequent gripes at SHIELD- that they should have been watching Banner, or had someone watching the TED event, all of the "should haves" coming out at the same time. Tony pulled a skeptical and admittedly unattractive face at the latter commentary. "Yeah, why don't we have a little coverage every now and then? That way Banner doesn't have to limp through all of India and I don't have to worry if some guy with-" Natasha's look cut him off immediately. He wondered if that was a spy tactic.

"Fury let you go. Others might have wanted to keep you in their pocket indefinitely. What you and Bruce and everyone else do when not called is your busin-" Tony scoffed. 

"Isn't keeping us in one piece in SHIELD's best interest? Little disappointing the next time something drops out of the sky and none of us are alive-" Natasha sat forward, scowling at him and he realized neither of them really wanted to talk about New York, about the days before that or the days after that. "We'll have this conversation later." He nodded and conceded, slumping back into the chair with a heavy sigh. Her expression softened slightly. "How bad is it?"  she asked quietly. His hands raised in a helpless gesture. The truth was fairly pretty plain- it was a miracle Bruce had managed to fumble his way to the party at all. 

"Bad." he replied. _So bad. Like, "makes me feel stupid" bad. "Only as good as my toys" bad._

"Do you have a plan if it gets worse?" She didn't elaborate further. She didn't need to. 

"That's where I was hoping you'd come in." The ghost of a smile flashed on her face.

"You tagging me in? I didn't think you cared for my involvement."

Tony couldn't help but grin back. "Are you kidding me? You heard my press conferences, we're all the best of friends. Most solid team ever, no interpersonal barriers to overcome." Her lips twisted as if resisting another smile, and she nodded. "How could I forget." With that, she started typing and setting things in motion, dizzying spy stuff that Natasha knew how to navigate with nigh-inhuman ease. "Send me everything you have, and I mean everything. I should find a way to be at your door in a few hours. Hopefully sooner." She didn't wait for Tony's confirmation. There was an exceedingly pregnant pause.

"How is he?" 

Tony visibly deflated in his seat, fingers curling in the last gelled peaks of his hair and sighed. "I don't even think he knows where he is."

Natasha worried her lower lip and nodded. "As long as he knows it's somewhere safe." 

_\-----------------------------------------------------------------------  
_

Tony didn't care to keep her occupied with banter, they could chip away at each other later, preferrably over victory drinks while they washed crony blood out of their clothes at Bruce's hospital bedside. (Where he, of course, would be recuperating peacefully no thanks to Nick Fury). He just had to keep things in place until he had someone watching his back. He couldn't play Doctor and Rambo all at the same time. It was weird, pre-New York, he would have been hellbent on carrying all these eggs in one basket (across a tightrope, blindfolded, with crutches, etc) but now maybe it wasn't so painful, going through one's rolodex, so to speak. One less nightmare that belonged to you exclusively. He wondered how Bruce felt about it. Was he still stuck in Fugitive Mode, at least psychologically? Tony had hoped that his first move, post-New York, was to be disgustingly normal. See a few movies he had missed. Enjoy fast food. Or, sheesh, get a haircut, hippie. Chuckling at his own joke, because it was really either that or cry, he opened the suitcase that held the Mark V, examining one of the repulsor gloves. It would be quick defense in a pinch. 

He found himself drifting by the room every 15 minutes or so, between varying states of talking to JARVIS and watching the stalemate that continued outside. It was becoming more and more apparent that they were happy to wait for Tony to either do something stupid, or Bruce to lose control. _Lazy jerks._ After pacing became almost unbearable, he finally perched on top of the dresser in front of the bed, repulsor glove in hand, listening to half of a dreamed conversation Bruce seemed to be having, barely able to distinguish the words mumbled feverishly into the pillow. He was sure he heard "Betty" a few times. His own thoughts drifted to Pepper, who had probably abandoned the prospect of reaching him by cellphone, and was probably getting ready to have dinner, probably with some junior congressman who was 80% haircut and thought he had the cunning to wrap her in a sex-scandal-to-be. He almost smiled. Watching Pepper shut down mouth-breathers was very nearly his favorite pasttime. Still. He hoped she wouldn't be alone. He made a mental promise to have JARVIS update her (within reason, security and all) of the situation in the morning. Yeah, things should be fine by then. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the name "Betty" was filed away.

He swore he only had his eyes closed for a second, surprised he doesn't fall clear off the bureau when JARVIS's beeping startled him awake. It doesn't sound like an alarm, but he fumbled around just the same, looking for the intruder or impending explosion, trying to sputter out the question on his mind- "What the _fuck_ , JAR-" He blinked when he saw Bruce doubled up on the bed, sort of hunched over, his labored breathing overtaking the room as the beeping subsided. Well, shit. "Sir, Dr. Banner's internal temperature readings are..." Tony was already way ahead of him as the words "medical emergency" buzzed passed his ears, struggling to get Bruce's tense, shaking body in a manageable position so that Tony could carry him. Green skin flashed across his neck and shoulders like a blush and Tony felt his stomach turn over, shakily mumbling reassuring nonsense in Bruce's ear, needing him to hear it, to reconnect and calm down. 

His hold on Bruce was graceless and haphazard as Tony stumbled towards the bathroom, still talking nonstop. "This is payback right? I know the suit is heavy, but c'mon, that had to be, like, catching a styrofoam cup for the big guy. Not even." JARVIS wasn't wrong, the heat coming off of him was palpable. A not-insignificant amount of web browsing had mentally prepared him once it was clear medication would fail, leading to, as was Avengers tradition apparently, a last ditch effort. With one hand, he pulled the glass door open on the shower, a walk-in big enough for at least two people (that design not being coincidental). Bruce was lowered, again, gracelessly, onto the floor as Tony threw on the water and quickly adjusted it, lukewarm water blasting down on them. Bruce frowned, eyes still closed, face shadowed by equal parts confusion and pain, sputtering as he reached out, trying to feel his way around, and that's when Tony found himself holding him, one hand steadying him against the tile, the other smoothing his hair back, both of them soaked while Tony leaned in, talking just loudly enough to be heard over the dull roar of the showerhead. 

"Alright, listen Banner, here's the deal: I don't know what I'm doing, there's about a million things I could have done... _should_ have done to keep you from here and I didn't, so I need you to just take a deep breath and stay here with me. Okay?" Tony strained to reach up above him where a washcloth hung from a hook on the wall, tugging it down. Sitting down next to Bruce despite the cold water, he reached across his shoulders, hand clamping across his forehead with the damp washcloth, the other measuring his pulse with two fingers. "Tony-" He heard the barely-there exclamation leave Bruce's heat-cracked lips and he shook his head, trying to ignore everything but the pace of Bruce's heart. Too erratic, maybe even arrhythmic now. "Shhhh, don't talk, just concentrate." Tony choked out, his own voice sounding far away and robotic. 

"You have to stay with me, alright? If you lose it-" Tony winced at his phrasing, knowing it couldn't help Bruce to know that if he hulked out, they would likely descend on this place and take them both. "I'm not letting you go anywhere, Big Guy. You're stuck with me." Bruce's posture slumped, head resting on Tony's shoulder, and Tony swore softly, before adjusting, both arms now around him, insistently pressing the cloth against his face, his neck, any pulse point he could find, both of them soaked through to their skin.

"If you think I'm just gonna let you go away again, you have another fucking thing coming, I swear to god." He refused to acknowledge that his hands were shaking. Curling against Tony, Bruce sighed once, almost as if in relief and Tony felt his hand press against the arc reactor. His vision blurred. He bit on his tongue. "Bruce, _please_."

Nothing. 

Tony stilled before a panicked intake of air tore through him, fingers pressing harshly into his neck, feeling for that little beat that had vanished. About to cry out, Tony felt a slight shudder and then another noise, which he finally recognized as a _growl_ as he pulled back slightly, and a light went on in his brain, not fast enough to react to what was happening.

Being pushed through the glass door was enough of a clue.

Tony groaned sharply as he hit the floor, glass shattering around him and underneath him and he was fairly certain his back was cut to ribbons, blood blooming undeneath his wet shirt. Blinking back dizziness, he heard Bruce clamber out of the shower, on his knees, his pained breathing and groaning deepening an octave. Tony sat up and and reached out blindly before being pushed back to the floor, Bruce's hand closing around his neck. Pinned to the floor and flopping around like a dying fish, he was almost too busy marveling at his strength to catch sight of his face, and Tony realized that he had never actually seen Bruce become the Hulk before. Not fully changed, Bruce was stuck somewhere inbetween, all the tiny veins beneath his skin slowly turning green as something inside him fought back relentlessly, using the last of his strength to contain the Hulk. Tony bit back what air he could manage- he had to admit, in this state, not quite Bruce and not quite Hulk, that the deformed result was startling. Hideous, even. 

"Bruce-" he rasped as his fingers tried to pry Bruce's changing hands away from his throat. "Don't-" _Don't let them win. Don't let them take you. Don't kill me._

Another feral growl escaped Bruce's throat, and despite the pain shooting into him from all sides, Tony could tell that Bruce was fighting tooth and nail, to keep the Hulk, who had probably been rattling his mental cage for days now, from coming out and bringing the house down around them. His vision dimmed around the edges and he was very near blacking out when he saw a shape hovering over the both of them. "Bruce!" a voice commanded from behind and before either man or monster could react, Natasha's cloth-laden hand clamped over Bruce's mouth and nose and the man went limp against her, back to being very small and very pale. Tony gasped for air in a puddle of his own blood, a million phrases of gratitude floating around in his brain, desperate to grab one as soon as he saw her clearly, gently lowering Bruce onto the floor and tossing the cloth into the sink.

"I love you." he panted. She didn't miss a beat.

"As well you should."


End file.
